


The Roads Not Taken...

by selyndae



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-11
Updated: 2015-12-11
Packaged: 2018-05-06 05:09:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5404202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/selyndae/pseuds/selyndae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This story is <i>not</i> a 'usual' Christmas fic.<br/>Life is all about choices...some simple, some complex, but all affect the direction our lives inevitably run.<br/></p>
<p>These are some thoughts about what may have happened between the final episode on television and the Return movie.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Roads Not Taken...

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Garonne](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Garonne/gifts).



**_20 February 1973, New York_ **

Last night’s forecast had warned of a severe storm, predicting record-breaking snowfalls. This being their slow time, Napoleon Solo had given his employees the day off, telling them not to come in until Monday. Now, bereft of his usually brutal schedule, he wandered around his penthouse apartment aimlessly, unshaven and still in his robe, even though it was almost noon. A look outside showed no more snow than usual. He grinned briefly— _a free day then._

He continued to look outside, watching the snow plows and snarled traffic for quite a while. Eventually, he moved away from the large window, and wandered into the small kitchen. Automatically measuring coffee and cold water into his new _Mr. Coffee,_ he pressed the ‘on’ button, and started to open the breadbox, when the calendar caught his eye. 

Five years ago today, he’d left UNCLE for good.

Ignoring the fragrant aroma of the rapidly brewing coffee, he walked back into the living room, and poured himself a glass of his best single-malt whiskey.

“To five years, a free man.” Mockingly he raised his glass, then downed the drink in one long swallow.

The warm burn of the expensive alcohol felt pretty good, so he poured himself another. Draining half, he idly swirled the Glencairn glass, enjoying the seductive effects of the whiskey. His eyes wandered around the quaint room, until caught by the photograph on the wall next to the front door. He and his partner were standing, guns ready, red smoke brilliant against the background of the gunmetal, grey corridor.

_Some kind of drill…? Yeah, one of Waverly’s little tests._ He smiled. _At least it’s a good picture._

Sipping at the whiskey, he strolled over to take a closer look.

_God, were we ever that young?_

The smile faded until there was only a sad memory on his lips, the heaviness of unfulfilled dreams and lack of real purpose settling around him again.

_Happier times. Yeah, who knew?_

He raised his glass to the picture. 

“To you, Illya.” _Someone who was, once upon a time, the best part of my life._ Swallowing the rest of his drink, he stared into the empty glass. _Until I screwed things up…_

Now mournfully introspective, he glanced around the almost fussy room again. On impulse, he held up the expensive, leaded-crystal glass, and looked through it, the room taking on a distorted appearance through the condensation of the concave surface. The inherited penthouse was mostly unchanged since his Aunt Amy’s time. In the almost four years he’d lived here, aside from the addition of his wardrobe, the only personal touches were the security camera picture (which hung up in place of the family picture of him as a child with his aunt— _that_ one now hung in his bedroom), and two framed photographs sitting on the sofa table and buffet.

_Joyce._

She _should_ have been the one. The first shot was a posed one, showing two attractive people having a good time. He’d looked devilishly handsome, the silvering at his temples lending a polished, mature look. The woman wasn’t his usual type, devoid of the usual lacquered sophistication, but her warm smile and serious eyes showed a person of real substance. The other picture, a candid shot, caught her by surprise, revealing a dimpled laugh. 

He poured himself another glass, this time sipping it properly as befitted a whiskey of this quality.

_Yeah, that was a happy time…for a while anyway._

He sighed and took another swallow, emptying the glass again. As the warmth continued to settle around him, he stared at the cut-glass decanter before reluctantly setting the glass down next to it.

The room was suddenly overly warm and becoming fuzzy around the edges. Glancing over at the thermostat, his eyes were inexorably drawn back to that photograph...

_Illya._

With an effort, he dragged his eyes away from the picture and forced himself to focus. The heat from too much whiskey and too little food, made him feel even more lethargic. _Maybe I should just go back to bed._

But, the inviting aroma of the coffee eventually filtered through his rapidly befuddled senses, changing his mind. Bleary from the effects of the alcohol, he stumbled back into the kitchen, and managed to pour a large mug of the hot, fragrant liquid. Blowing on it briefly, he took a large sip, masochistically enjoying the scalding heat from the coffee.

The strong, bitter liquid slowly began to replace the false warmth of the whiskey, and with a sigh he refilled the mug. Stretching, he rummaged through the tiny pantry in search of some food. He really wasn’t hungry, but sensibly felt he should eat something. _Maybe have something sent in from the deli? No, I need to get out, be with people._

On impulse, he sat down his coffee and went into his bedroom where he opened up a small, hidden safe. Removing a slim, black book, he looked through the notations until, selecting one, he picked up the phone and began to dial…

 

Groaning, Napoleon opened sleep-crusted eyes. Habit made him glance around his surroundings—assessing—even in a secure location such as this one. The room was plain, but clean, the bed firm, and the sparse furnishings solid. Glancing over at the figure burrowed under the covers next to him, he sighed before rolling smoothly out of bed—from the pounding in his head, he knew he’d drunk far more than he should have. He stood for a moment, balancing carefully as his companion automatically shifted closer into the still warm spot on the bed. The tousled golden locks shimmered invitingly in the dim lighting, from the movement, and Napoleon’s somber expression softened, looking at the artlessly sprawled figure. 

Turning abruptly, he stepped into the tiny bath to splash cold water on his face. Patting dry with the scratchy towel, he took a long, hard look in the mirror. Somehow, despite the heavy drinking, and vigorous activities that had followed, he looked surprisingly…normal.

Impatiently tossing the used towel next to the sink, he slipped back into the room and dressed rapidly. The night had its pleasant moments—very pleasant, actually, but those moments were over, and Napoleon was not a man to hang onto things after they were finished.

“Mmmm, Lee?” His bedmate opened one eye. “Leaving so soon?”

“Yes, I’ve got to get going. You know how it is.” Napoleon slipped on his coat, automatically smoothing his cuffs and making sure the coat was properly settled on his shoulders.

The young man sat up, hugging his arms around himself. “I’d love a repeat sometime. Last night was wonderful.”

Napoleon was anxious to get going, but remembered his manners and gave a polite smile. “Maybe. Look, checkout time isn’t until noon. You can sleep in, relax, you know.” He glanced at his watch. “I really _do_ have to leave. Goodbye.” He left quickly, making sure the door was latched behind him.

The morning was chilly and grey, the snow already melting into dirty slush. _Wonderful._ Hunched into his coat, he walked until he spied a subway entrance. He didn’t want to take a cab…not from here.

 

**_20 February 1973, Moscow_ **

Illya Kuryakin quickly skimmed over the last page of his report for the _Morskoyo Flota_ in the typewriter. Finally allowing himself a breather, he flexed his shoulders in an effort to relieve some stiffness, before leaning back into the chair.

He glanced at the calendar, and with a start realized it had been five years ago today, that his partner had resigned.

Following that horrific debacle in Yugoslavia, and suffering from injuries sustained there, Illya Kuryakin also left UNCLE without a backward look, returning to the Soviet Union. In truth, he’d missed his homeland, and the once-close connection with his family, welcoming the opportunity to reactivate his commission within the _Morskoyo Flota_. The Intelligence Branch offered him a gratifying challenge for his mind, and the desk work gave his body the much-needed time to heal properly.

It had been almost four years since he’d been assigned the intelligence-related position in the Soviet naval division. His service in UNCLE, along with his reinstated commission and family status, had garnered him an almost luxurious flat in Arbat circling Moscow. And if a small part of him knew that leaving the Command was in part, an act of cowardice—Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin was not a man to shy away from the truth, no matter how inconvenient—he ruthlessly acknowledged that he’d _had_ to leave and this new, chosen direction was the easiest solution

He leaned forward and reached for the report. Flexing stiffened fingers, he read through what he had typed. 

_Ah, letter perfect despite the cold._

He had been feeling chilled lately. Probably just his annual cold. _Or, could it be that you’re used to the milder climates in New York? And, perhaps the luxury of jetting off to exotic locations on a whim during a rare vacation—usually at the urging of Na—_

Irritated at this jaunt through the past, he grabbed the final page out of the battered typewriter, stacked everything together neatly, and placed them into a folder. Pursing his lips thoughtfully, he scrawled his initials on the top and slipped the folder in his desk. 

_I’m probably just hungry…_

Satisfied with this answer to his restlessness, he stood up, and after carefully locking his desk, placed the metal cover over his typewriter, locking that as well. Everything secured, he shrugged into his heavy coat and, pressing the automatic lock on the door, fled the suddenly oppressive room.

Outside in the crisp air, sunlight filtered wanly through a leaden sky, occasional sparks of brightness reflecting through the sparsely blowing snow. Illya hunkered down in his coat, trying to keep the chill wind from blowing the icy bits down his neck, as he strolled through the busy downtown area on Mokhovaya Street. He thought he might pick out a small token gift for his companion this evening; he had tickets for the Mossovet Theater and was looking forward to seeing his mother’s cousin perform.

A bright, colorful window caught his eye and he slowed to study the tasteful display, before entering the small shop. Inside, the room was cluttered, but very clean, everything polished and carefully showcased to best advantage. A small snow globe caught his eye. It was a music box—just the thing; Misha would see the humor in the gift and enjoy the gesture. 

He snorted in amusement. In that, Misha was very much like Napoleon. 

His jaw muscles tightened. _That_ , is the only real resemblance to his former partner. Although… Misha _was_ sometimes a bit overly fussy about his manner of dress, but his clothes weren’t extravagant. His hair, too, was longish and brown with a premature streak of white, and his eyes were a _light_ hazel.

The driver of a pale green Moskivitch blew the horn impatiently at a plump, fur-clad man who almost stepped off the crowded curb in front of him. The Square had gotten busier with the shift change, and the crowds hurried a bit faster, eager to get home. Seeing the lateness of the hour, Illya stepped up his own pace—he wanted to get back to his flat and change, to meet his friend on time!

 

The play was a rousing success. The actors were talented, and the play lighthearted and well-written. Because of his familial connection, Illya, and his friend Misha, were allowed backstage to meet the esteemed Rostislav Plyatt for a few minutes, until the actor was whisked away with his collection of admirers. 

The weather was unexpectedly mild for February, so the two men decided to walk to Misha’s flat. As they walked, Illya noticed the other pedestrians seemed more optimistic than they’d been since the onset of the cold war with the United States. President Nixon’s visit to Moscow nine months ago had been an historic breakthrough, and the Summit meeting between Nixon and General Secretary Brezhnev, was generally considered a first step toward a possible future between the two antagonistic countries. There were still (and would always be) intrinsic differences between the Socialists and Capitalists; no doubt Napoleon would—

“Illya, you seem so far away.”

Illya started inwardly but smoothly covered his lapse. “The play was enjoyable, was it not?”

Misha’s eyes twinkled, not fooled in the least, but accepting his friend’s response. “Very! I’m so glad you invited me.” He gave a sideways look before adding, “I have a stroganoff for dinner...”

“And…?”

“A very nice wine. Oh, _and_ Beluga caviar!”

Illya stopped and gave a sharp look. His voice was dangerously low when he asked, “How…?”

“A gift from a very good, um, _friend_. Now, don’t worry.”

Illya’s expression remained skeptical.

“It’s perfectly fine—really, I promise you.” His smile turned sly. “I may have something sweet for dessert.”

“Hmm, perhaps…” Illya’s eyes glowed warmly, and he began to walk a bit faster. “I _am_ hungry.”

 

Hours later, both men were pleasantly warmed, satisfied, by the excellent dinner, and the wine. Huddled together in front of the small heater, they could just see their breath from the fat candle which cast a soft glow around the room. The musical snow globe stood next to it, and the flickering candle reflected as if the ‘snow’ were still falling inside—Misha _had_ been delighted with the small gift.

The hour was late, but the company pleasant, and reluctant to return to a cold, empty flat, Illya lingered. They had both drunk more than usual.

“Illya, I’ve been meaning to ask; why you didn’t bring Olga to the play tonight?”

Illya stiffened momentarily; he should have known his childhood friend would bring up her absence. He answered quietly, “We are divorced.”

“I’m sorry, I shouldn't have said anything.”

“You didn't know...and, it was a lifetime ago.” Illya shrugged. “She wanted a Naval Officer, and when I put that career on hold to work for the Command, she was…displeased. She divorced me and married her lover, a career man.”

His friend patted Illya’s arm sympathetically. “She was a fool, Illya Nickovetch.”

Illya shrugged dismissively. “I had a dangerous job, as you know.” He paused. “We...had a son. Vanya is ten—no, eleven.”

Misha looked at his friend, his eyes warmly compassionate. “Oh Illya.”

Illya reached for the wine bottle and gave it a shake. Offering it first to Misha, who shook his head, he poured the remainder in his glass. Taking a large swallow, he let the liquid warm him through, before speaking.

“It was better no one knew. Her husband adopted the boy right after the marriage.” He smiled, although the smile never reached his eyes. “He is safe and in a good home. His…father…has given him stability, something which would never have been possible with me.”

“I see… Illya, stay with me tonight?”

Illya sighed. “I cannot. You, of all people, know that.”

Misha ran his large hand through Illya’s overlong hair. “Serge is in Odessa until next week, so I’m all alone here. Please stay.”

“This isn’t a good idea—”

“ _And_ we can talk about your next career!” Misha almost clapped his hands in glee.

“What? Oh, Misha, surely not _that!_ ”

“Yes, _that_.” Misha stood up suddenly, and on unsteady feet, walked over to his bureau. Opening the middle drawer, he rummaged around, shifting clothing, before pulling out a small leather case. “See, I saved your drawings.” He pulled the papers out and thrust them over. “Take a look. They’re _good_. I promise!”

Reluctantly taking the drawings, Illya looked through them with increasing slowness. Holding up the pages one by one, a ghost of a smile played around his lips. “They’re…not too bad, I suppose.”

“They’re better than ‘not too bad’ and you know it.”

“Perhaps…but, it’s just a pastime.”

Misha looked Illya directly in the eyes. “Illya, your talents are wasted at that small office. When you can draw like this—well, I can’t understand it.”

“It’s a good job.”

“Yes, yes, but, no longer a real challenge, I suspect. You miss all the travel, the excitement. Illya Nickovetch, you miss working for—”

Illya clapped a hand over Misha’s mouth. “I do _not_ miss working there and I will _never_ go back!”

“And the travel? The excitement?”

“Well…”

“Then do it! Make the change. The climate is ripe for Russia to make its mark in the fashion world, and _I_ think the West would be very open to new ideas from the ‘Mysterious Soviet Union’. Your ideas are just the thing—I _know_ it!”

Illya frowned, biting his lip as he thought furiously. Suddenly he broke into a broad smile and jumped to his feet excitedly. Grabbing his friend in a bear hug, he kissed Misha on both cheeks. “I will do it!”

“You will? That’s wonderful!”

“Yes…I will speak with the Admiral next week.”

Misha wrapped his arms around his friend. “Then stay tonight.”

Illya’s expression softened. “Tomorrow I will have to pack, make some calls… I will be very busy.” He caressed Misha’s arm. “But…I will stay tonight.”

 

**_April 1974, New York_ **

More than a year had passed since his first assignation with the rent boy. Even though Napoleon had an enviably steady stream of sophisticated women in his life, he often found himself wanting…more. The women should have been enough, even for his healthy libido.

Some of those secretive encounters even left him feeling sordid, dissatisfied. The risks were high, even with the proclaimed freedoms of the changing times, so he was scrupulously careful to keep them to a minimum. He still enjoyed the women, and prided himself on seeing that they had an enjoyable encounter, but he had a sense that he was using them. If only Illya—

_Damn, why did I have to think of him?_

But once the name of his former partner crept into his thoughts, the rest pushed its way to the forefront, including the last time he spoke with him…

 

_**Late January 1968, New York** _

They’d just returned from that horrific mission with Kingsley. Waverly, deeply shaken by the Affair, was colder, and more impatient than ever. A natural result, considering the level of trust that had been severed. 

If only the last few missions hadn’t been so…dark, perhaps… He blamed the job for the increasing distance between them. The heightened danger, the overwhelming darkness of the recent missions had been certainly more than harrowing. Too few opportunities to find those moments of levity over Thrush’s over-the-top plans, the complete relaxation after an Affair—all factors. But deep down, he knew it was more than just the job.

Things had changed so rapidly over the past year, the tenor of their missions reflecting the unsettled times. He was older, too, making each mission harder, both physically and emotionally, and it didn’t help that he worked alone more often than not. The strain was telling in his growing disillusionment, and aching body. And his aching heart.

Years of partnership, friendship, banter, teasing, forced intimacy, the huge level of trust; all a huge part of what made his life satisfying and complete. But now, these things were disappearing, and Illya at its core—increasingly and singularly targeted—until the worry and feeling of inadequacy spiked exponentially. 

As for _his_ actions—he fully expected to be censured for putting his partner ahead of the missions, breaking one of the first tenets of the job. But, Waverly had been oddly silent in this.

The truth. Soon after the Viktor Karmak’s* threats, he realized he couldn’t go on like this, and the realization shook him to the core. _Napoleon Solo was in love with his partner._

So, they were sitting at their respective desks writing their reports. At least, that was what Illya was doing; Napoleon was mostly just sitting, tapping his pen, and staring. (Despite rumors of delegating _all_ paperwork—one didn’t become a successful Chief Enforcement Agent by looks and field work alone.) 

_This_ time was… How _do_ you write a report where one of your own has turned to Thrush?

Okay… Jot down the facts. The capture and subsequent meeting with Kingsley, his new ideals were all written calmly and concisely. Turning down the offer to join Thrush, also duly noted. Lined up for a firing squad—

His hand started to shake uncontrollably. 

It wasn’t the firing squad itself—he’d already had that experience before, that other time with Clara, his former fiancée. That time, in typical ‘Napoleon fashion,’ had presented a strong presence for the innocent, holding his head high, looking the firing squad directly in the eye, never once losing his savoir fare…

This time…he’d been with his partner. Illya had been so calm, resigned even, while his own attitude had bordered on arrogance…

Tossing down his pen in frustration, he sighed noisily.

Illya had glanced over, believing he understood the problem.

Of course he couldn’t. Understand, that is. That was when Napoleon looked over at him, _really_ seeing him. Suddenly it was all too much. The usually urbane agent found himself suddenly unable to cope.

“Illya, I’ve got to get out of here.”

“The report won’t finish itself, and no, I’m not doing it for you.”

The attempt at banter fell flat.

“We can finish it tomorrow. Right now, I need to get drunk.”

Illya’s eyes widened slightly in surprise, but he simply nodded. “Would you care for some company? I, too, feel a need for serious drinking.”

Napoleon looked at his partner in speculation, torn between the primeval need to hide away against his need for Illya. It wasn’t much of a contest.

“Come on then.”

They stopped to get a couple of bottles of Chivis Regal, Illya picking out some deli meats and cheeses, before heading for Napoleon’s apartment. As soon as the alarms were set, Napoleon had gone into his bedroom, calling out, “You know where everything is. I’m getting out of these clothes first.” 

When he returned, casually clad in wool trousers and a thick, claret pullover, the fireplace had been lit and Illya’s holster and suit coat hung on the back of a chair. Illya was seated by the coffee table which now held a variety of foods, and was opening a jar of pickles. Deli meats, cheeses, bread, olives, mustard, (and peanut butter?) were next to plates, and a stack of paper napkins. The bottles of scotch were next to the ice bucket and (he was pleased to note) two of his wide-bowl whiskey glasses.

“Mmmm, setting is everything,” he murmured.

Illya shot him a predictable glare as he fished out a pickle with his fingers.

Napoleon merely waggled his brows, opened one of the bottle, and eschewing the ice, poured the whiskey. He toasted his partner silently before downing his glassful. As he refilled his glass, Illya, having finished the pickle, knocked back his own glassful. 

 

Hours later, the agents were very, very tipsy—certainly drunker than they’d been in years. Soft music from the stereo was the only sound in the room aside from the occasional pop from the fireplace. The ice had melted, the food eaten, and great inroads made into the second bottle—the first, a dim memory. Night had fallen, but neither felt ambitious enough to switch on the lights.

Eventually Illya stirred, his movements waking Napoleon, who’d been dozing fitfully in a chair. He almost fell until, awkwardly, managed to keep his balance and stumble over to his partner. “Bed…”

Napoleon had blinked. “Sure.” And promptly leaned back, eyes closing.

Illya shook him. “Not comfortable. You need bed.”

Inept fumbling later, they both managed to get to their feet, and head for the bedroom, where Napoleon fell heavily on his bed. After a moment to steady himself, Illya lurched back toward the door.

Napoleon, suddenly aware of the impending departure sat up, body weaving. “No, no, no, no, no!!”

Illya teetered back around.

“Bed…s-stay.” His words were slurred. “Too…drunk to go.”

Illya stumbled back. Sitting heavily on the bed next to his partner, he toed off his shoes before flopping back.

Even drunk, Napoleon couldn’t sleep in his clothes. He sat back up and shook his partner. “Undress first—mustn’t muss the clothes.” Snickering at this play on words, he pulled his sweater off. Folding it with exaggerated care, he fumbled with his trousers until finally, he managed to stand and remove them. and after a few aborted attempts, managed to hang them (more or less neatly) over the back of the chair. Smug with victory, he stumbled back to bed.

Illya looked at him blearily for a moment until, sighing, managed to yank off his own turtleneck and toss it in the general direction of the chair. His trousers soon followed and he grinned as he lay back down.

 

“Not Illya! _No_! Get away from him!” Shaking violently, Napoleon was caught up in the throes of a horrible nightmare, spiraling into a gaping maw of horror, until he finally felt wonderfully familiar arms holding him tight.

Safety. 

Peering through barely opened eyes, he found himself looking into the beautiful, concerned, _loving_ eyes of his partner.

Illya.

The love he felt for this one special man flowed over him like a warm, comforting blanket, his heart swelling to overflowing, until he _had_ to act. Grabbing hold of his slighter partner, Napoleon kissed him. Hard. Far from being the kiss of a friend, this was highly intimate…and desperate.

Illya froze for a moment, then relaxed.

Immediately hard, Napoleon thrust against his partner, holding him firmly in his arms.

“Na-poleon?”

Hearing his beloved’s husky baritone, he kissed him again, thoroughly, his tongue demanding entry, even as he shoved his hand down Illya’s boxers to close around the semi-erect penis. His own erection was throbbing in need as he paused to remove his briefs one-handed. Finally, relieved of the obstructing material, he reached for his own penis and, holding Illya’s rapidly lengthening erection above the waistband brought both together and began to thrust.

It didn’t take long before Napoleon, and then Illya ejaculated.

At first Napoleon was jubilant, bubbling with joyous victory, until suddenly aware of a lack of response. Stricken, he released his partner and turned away to curl up, trembling, eyes squeezed shut. Shocked at his loss of control, and desperately afraid of Illya’s impending departure, tears welled up in his eyes. Shaking uncontrollably, he whispered, “P-please d-don’t…don’t go…”

But, before the emptiness could completely consume him, Illya lay back down behind his partner, and spooning him, put his arms around him, holding him close. Eventually, Napoleon relaxed and leaned into the strong arms of refuge until he slept…safe.

 

Napoleon groaned and stretched. Ugh! He was sticky and his head felt as though a hamster wheel was being driven by erratically flailing squirrels. Stumbling into the bathroom, he dashed water on his face and stared, bleary-eyed, into the mirror. The harsh lighting hid nothing.

_Last night was— Oh no, last night!_

Grabbing his robe, he belted it firmly before venturing, almost hesitantly into the living room. There, he saw his partner staring out the large window.

“Napoleon...”

Mouth suddenly desiccant dry, he was unable to answer.

After a moment, Illya turned and went into the kitchen. The aroma of sautéed onion began to waft out and he realized he was also smelling coffee. _I’ll make toast_ , he thought as he headed into the kitchen. Bread in the toaster, he went straight for the percolator, outwardly calm, but as he poured, guilt and regret overshadowed everything.

The omelet was fluffy, made with his favorite ingredients, and the coffee strong, and fortifying. But, everything may as well have been sawdust as he forced himself to take small bites.

Eating in silence was not unusual, but this morning it felt…strained.

“Napoleon?”

_Here it was—the denouement of how badly he’d damaged things between them._

“Napoleon, about what happened last night…I—”

He couldn’t bear to listen. Forcing the anxious churning deep inside, terrified, he lashed out the only way he knew how. With a careless shrug, he forced a short laugh. “There really isn’t anything to discuss.” Catching a flicker of hurt in his partner’s eye, added quickly, “Look, it was just a nightmare. Don’t make anything more of it than what it is.” The smooth lie fell easily from his lips, the crooked smile belied by the cold eyes.

“Of course. Nightmares are, after all, an unfortunate result of our profession.” As he spoke, Illya began gathering up the breakfast dishes.

“Hey, you cooked breakfast—I can do the dishes.”

Illya gave his partner a hard look before carefully putting down the plates. “That would be fair.” He drew a deep breath. “In that case, I should get going, I have some things I should do today.” He gave another piercing look that seemed to delve into his partner’s very bones. “I will see you in the morning.”

Napoleon looked around his apartment and sighed. Strange how empty it seemed now that his partner had gone. _This is all your own doing, Solo. You couldn’t control yourself! He’ll never— Damnit! Why didn’t I at least tell him the truth?_

He blinked rapidly, fighting tears of loss, of frustration. There was nothing to be done for it but to move on…

 

**_March 1971, New York_ **

Napoleon Solo leaned back in his chair, relaxing for the first time in weeks. The new offices would be ready next month and he’d just completed a terrific deal procuring some new technology. He nodded in satisfaction. _This should put my computer company near the top of the Fortune 500._

Wanting to celebrate, he called Joyce McCall, the bright young lawyer he’d met last year at a Christmas party. Blonde, blue-eyed, full figured, wicked sense of humor; they’d been dating regularly. Enough anyway, that the gossip rags were already speculating about the attractive couple.

He felt comfortable with Joyce—more so than he’d felt with anyone in a long time. Maybe it was time to take the relationship to the next level. He hummed in anticipation.

 

After dining at the 21 Club, they’d returned to his apartment and continued to enjoy the rest of the evening. Joyce had been wildly responsive with surprising abandon, Napoleon, tender and inventive. Finally, exhausted and sated, the couple snuggled together in bed. Sexually, the night had been spectacular, but for some reason, he felt a bit restless, and oddly on edge. 

Joyce stirred in his arms, and in response, he automatically nuzzled her neck.

“Mmmm, nice,” she murmured, stirring in his arms. “I’m going to have to get up though, if I’m going to make it in to work today.”

Napoleon sighed and eased back gently, affectionately continuing to rub her back. “You could play hooky.”

She sat up. “Not today. I have to look over that brief before submitting it to Judge Mason. My secretary also wants me to look over a case for a friend of hers. She believes in his innocence, of course, so I agreed to interview him and make my recommendations.” She gave him a careful look before casually remarking, “By the way, I’m going out of town next week. Los Angeles.”

Napoleon stopped rubbing and squinted up at her. “Kind of short notice, isn’t it?”

She shrugged and slipped out of bed. After gathering up her things, she sat down in front of the antique dresser and started to brush her hair. Looking at him in the mirror’s reflection, she replied. “I suppose it is a bit.”

“Let’s see… The convention isn’t until next month, but I could probably wrap things up at work and join you. I know some great restaurants on the West Coast, and there’s a really nice beach place up in Malibu, if you’re going to be in L.A. for a bit.”

“That sounds lovely, but I’m not going to be out there that long. Not this trip, anyway.” She stopped brushing her hair to turn and look at him directly. “I didn’t want to say anything before I was sure, but, I’ll be transferring to Los Angeles. I’ve been offered a junior partnership, and, well, that’s what this trip is all about—to finalize my contract. It’s a wonderful opportunity.” 

“Wat…about last night?”

“Last night was really, _really_ wonderful.”

Napoleon was up by now and, slipping on his robe, walked over to Joyce. “I’m, uh, glad you enjoyed last night—I did, too. But this Los Angeles thing…why didn’t you say anything? I thought we had some kind of understanding. Come on, honey, don’t you think I should have had at least a _part_ in this decision?”

Joyce looked up at the handsome man and smiled ruefully. “Oh, you would have had a _very_ large part in this decision. If only things were different.”

“Different? What—”

“Darling, darling Napoleon. I know you like me a lot. You may even love me, but _I’m_ not the one you really want.”

“Joyce! Would we be here together if I—?”

She put a finger on his lips. “You _want_ me for now…for this moment in time. That’s one of your best qualities—that gift you have of making the person you’re with, feel like they’re the most important person in the world.

“But, you’re still in love with someone else.”

“Joyce, I…I don’t know what to say.”

She smiled and kissed him. “It is what it is. When this partnership opportunity came along, I knew, then, that drifting along with you wasn’t the way it should be.”

“I’m…sorry.”

“Don’t be. Look, you’re fun and very attractive. Exceptional in bed…”

Napoleon grinned.

“But, you know that already. I think we’re _both_ intelligent enough to know the truth.”

Napoleon took her hand and kissed it. “Friends?”

“Friends.” She smiled in relief. “Now, let me finish getting ready so I’m not late!”

 

**_April 1974, San Francisco_ **

Opening a New York branch was even harder than the Paris branch had been. Vanya’s, a European success, was bombarding the fashion world with its uniquely fresh designs. And, in no small part, the mysterious whirlwind of a Russian who created it. 

The work had been satisfying in ways Illya would never have imagined. Acting a part was one thing—years earlier he played the role on impulse when confronted in an exclusive boutique! Now _this_ was his life, and he still found himself astonished at his enormous success and capitalistic wealth. If one believed the rave reviews, Vanya’s imaginative styles were highly coveted by the elite and powerful throughout Europe, and touted as one of the ‘must-haves’ in the social world.

He was fortunate in acquiring the perfect foil to his sharp, impatient demeanor while still in Europe. Rebecca Sandusky, as his New York liaison, was a treasure. Sharp and intuitive in her dealings with vendors, contractors and the like, she was also patient and efficient in handling the high-strung models, and anything else requiring a personal touch. Despite a messy divorce, she was also self-confident enough to ignore his temper—even outspoken enough to speak her mind when necessary!

Early on, he’d seriously considered a romantic relationship with this delightful woman, but something had held him back, and instead, they’d become good friends. 

Which was why, he was able to leave the still-fledgling office in her capable hands, and go on a buying trip in San Francisco. Sam Tsai, one of his regular suppliers, had contacted him about some new shipments of unique fabrics. After examining the bolts, Illya, pleasantly impressed, had placed his order on the spot. 

Now, finishing the purchase earlier than expected, he glanced at his watch and stopped at Fisherman’s Wharf for a late lunch. He was perusing the menu, when on impulse, he waved down a waiter requesting a phone be brought to his table.

_“Yes”_ The brief response didn’t quite hide a faint Russian accent.

“Misha? This is—”

_“Illya! Where are you? How are you doing?”_

“I am quite well as you know. Look, I was just wondering if you’d like to meet for dinner tonight.”

_“You’re here? In San Francisco? Why didn’t you call?”_

“On business. Yes. And I’m calling now. I finished up earlier than expected and remembered that you were in town this month.”

_“So busy! I’m flattered and absolutely—dinner is a must! We can catch up. Oh, but I won’t be free until after 8:00.”_

“That’s fine. Where shall we meet?”

_“Doro’s. You still like Italian food, yes?”_

“Of course.”

_“It’s settled then. 9:00?”_ A loud buzzer could be heard in the background. _“I’ve got to run!”_

“9:00, yes. I’ll see you at Doro’s.”

_“Пока!”_

The phone was dead before Illya could respond in kind. Hanging up, he tapped the menu thoughtfully until the waiter, who’d been hovering in the background, walked over to see if the gentleman was ready to order…

 

Later in bed, Illya luxuriated in the lovely feeling of complete relaxation, wonderfully sated, and with someone he trusted. Mikhail Andreyevich had done well for himself in the ballet, and the move to San Francisco suited him. News of Misha’s defection from the Soviet Union three years ago had been a bit of a surprise, but apparently the man had finally been indiscreet with the wrong person, and ended up fleeing for his life. 

His lips twitched in amusement as he thought about the rumors and expectations which followed male ballet dancers. The same ideas persisted in the fashion world as well—even if they _did_ happen to have the brushstroke of truth, at least where he was concerned. 

“You’re thinking again.” A large hand drew lazy circles on his arm.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.”

Misha propped himself up on one elbow and looked down into the calm blue eyes. His indulgent smile could just be seen by the flickering embers from the fireplace. “You didn’t, not really. Why would I waste time sleeping when I could be—” A gentle kiss on the exposed neck. “—doing things like—” Another light kiss on the full lips. “—this.” 

“Hmm,” Illya pretended to give the matter some serious thought. “Perhaps you’re right.” He returned the kiss, deepening it, before putting his arms around his taller bed partner and flipping him over on his back. Strong arms supported his body as he looked down at Misha and smiled. “Would you like another round?”

“Oh, yes!”

 

Illya easily made his plane, despite the full night’s activities. After stowing his carryon, he sat in the comfortably large seats, stretching his legs. _First Class may be a profligate way to travel, but it’s worth it sometimes!_

As he settled back, enjoying the wine brought over by the stewardess, he thought about the extensive traveling done while with the Command. Glancing around the half-empty Section, he remembered those flights—some harrowing, some a brief respite from the missions—but nearly all of them accompanied by his friend and partner. Well, until that business with Kingsley…

He lay back further in the seat as passengers prepared for takeoff.

 

**_Late January 1968, New York_ **

The last few Affairs had been exceptionally stressful, especially since they’d been working separately for the most part, or worse, as enemies. The ‘swinging’ sixties had been rife with peace marches, flower children, hippies, protests, and violence, with Thrush making the most of the chaos, employing their own brand of mischief and destruction. Then finally, Kingsley’s betrayal, one of their own, had hit UNCLE hard.

They’d accomplished little, that first day back. Uncharacteristically, Napoleon had wanted to go home and get drunk. Surprised about this radical change of character, he’d asked to go along.

The evening progressed pretty much as expected, and (even with the ‘munchies’ purchased along with the whiskey) both men drank far more than usual. Finally, overwhelmed by the alcohol, had given it up for the night with Illya staying at his partner’s request.

 

A loud yell sobered him faster than he would have believed possible. Napoleon was shaking, obviously caught up in the throes of a horrible nightmare.

Suddenly, Napoleon kissed him. Hard. 

Far from being the kiss of a friend, this was highly intimate…and desperate. He was startled at first, but—this was Napoleon, after all. And then he felt his partner’s erection.

“Na-poleon?”

Another kiss—a very thorough one—with tongue! Senses reeling, he focused on the sensual lips for an eternity. When he felt the hand reach down into his boxers, he couldn’t help but respond with a moan and a little thrust.

The _frottage_ was raw and fast and exciting! Until… Napoleon _had_ to still be awash in the alcoholic stupor from earlier. His partner had never shown any interest in bedding men before— _never_!

With that heart-rending thought, Illya froze.

Eventually, the lack of response had gotten through, and Napoleon released his partner. He immediately turned away, curling up, trembling, terrified. Illya looked down at the proud man—heart pounding in response.

He _couldn’t_ leave him—not _this_ man. So, Illya lay down behind his partner, and spooned him, putting his arms comfortingly around the shaking agent. Eventually, Napoleon relaxed, and leaned into the strong arms of refuge until he slept…safe.

As his partner slept, Illya lay awake.

 

Hours later, still too keyed up to sleep, Illya finally got up. His partner was still sleeping, so he went out into the living room and stared out of the huge window overlooking the park, watching the gradual lightening of the sky as the sun rose. Eventually he started a pot of coffee.

As he rummaged through the pantry and fridge, the previous night’s events kept replaying in his mind. Here in America, Illya often felt the tugs of homesickness, whenever he had a prolonged stretch of down time. Being so far away from his homeland made visits very difficult, so on occasion, he would go down to the Russian District near Brooklyn Heights. A few hours of familiar sounds and smells would envelop him, making him feel content. It was usually enough…

That kiss… The sex was surprising but…kissing was far more personal. Did Napoleon really have feelings like that for him? Unexpected, and probably a drunken act. But…it would be wonderful if—

Sounds from the bedroom alerted him to his partner’s waking, and he took a surreptitious, hungry glance at his…lover. Disheveled, eyes bloodshot, and unshaven, the usually debonair man made his way into the living room, belting his robe around him.

“Napoleon.” Smiling indulgently to himself, Illya glided into the kitchen and started breakfast. Napoleon popped some bread into the toaster before pouring himself a mug of coffee. 

Their eating a meal in silence was not unusual, but this morning if felt somehow…strained, and Illya’s mood turned to trepidation.

He _had_ to find out. “Napoleon…about what happened last night. I—”

Napoleon gave a casual shrug and laughed. “There really isn’t anything to discuss.” 

He couldn’t quite hide the flicker of hurt. 

Napoleon added quickly, “Look, it was just a nightmare. Don’t make anything more of it than what it is.” The smooth lie (yes, it _was_ a lie) had fallen easily from his lips, the crooked smile belied by coldly impersonal eyes.

“Of course. Nightmares are, after all, an unfortunate result of our profession.” As he spoke, Illya, anxious to do _something_ , began to gather up the breakfast dishes.

“Hey, you cooked the breakfast—I can do the dishes.”

Illya gave his partner a hard look before putting down the plates. “That would be fair.” He drew a deep breath. “In that case, I should get going, I have some things I should do today.” He gave another keen glance, trying to read Napoleon, but this morning, the legendary connection was broken. “I will see you in the morning.”

 

As soon as he entered his apartment, the cold emptiness overwhelmed him. _Damnit! You know what kind of man your partner is—you’ve always known! Nothing has changed. The very idea that he would—_

Ruthlessly cutting off any further thoughts of his partner, Illya strode into the bathroom, desperately needing a shower. The scalding water helped, and he dried off swiftly. Finally, dressed in black jeans and a loose heather-blue sweater, he dragged a comb through his hair before grabbing his bomber jacket. 

There were plenty of kindred spirits around—no need to foolishly want the impossible! Abruptly, checking his wallet, he left, not caring where he went...

 

Monday appeared to be business as usual with Napoleon acting like his usual affable self, though, a smidgen less sartorial. The faint darkness under his eyes could easily be mistaken for a good—if overlong—evening. The carefully focused attention to the details waiting on his desk could be attributed to a pointed remark or two from Waverly.

And…if it was a concerted effort to avoid a certain partner, it was depressingly successful.

The next couple of weeks were strangely disconnected. Solo’s administrative duties and Kuryakin's work in the labs kept them both very busy—especially since Kingsley. Except that normally they would get together for dinner, at least once or twice a week, when not on assignment. Since that night in the apartment, things had been off.

 

Today had been another in a long period of endless and completely unproductive days. First, the experiment Illya had been working on had overflowed in a completely unexpected reaction, ruining a couple of other projects. Hours were spent trying to recreate some of the more urgent ones, until after carelessly knocking over a row of test tubes, he finally called it a day.

Glancing at the clock, he was surprised it was only 4:00 p.m. 

Tossing the soiled lab coat into the bin, he suddenly felt an overpowering need to reconnect with his partner. It was time to work through their present difficulty— _past_ time, really, if they were to continue to work together as partners. Mind firmly made up, he hurried to their office.

_I should be able to catch Napoleon._

But, when he arrived, it felt…wrong. The first thing he noticed was the absence of Napoleon’s coat. That wasn’t too unusual, until he realized Napoleon’s desk looked neater and emptier than was normal. Strangely unsettled, he stared at his own overflowing desk, floundering, when his communicator went off with a summons to Waverly’s office.

“Mr. Kuryakin, the situation in Yugoslavia has escalated, rather more quickly than expected. You will fly into Belgrade, and take a train to Kragujavac. There you will meet our agent…a Lewis Janus; he will apprise you of the current status.”

“Yes, Sir. Er, will Mr. Solo be joining me later?”

Waverly put down the file he was reviewing and looked directly at his agent for a long moment. “No, he will not.” He picked up the file again. “Mr. Solo’s resignation from this organization, took effect this morning.” Giving a penetrating stare, he added, “He did not apprise you of his decision, then.”

“Uh, no, Sir.”

“I see. When you complete this assignment, we will discuss the matter further.”

“Yes, Sir.”

 

**_28 December 1978, New York_ **

After a perfunctory tap on the office door, Rebecca walked in. Illya glanced up briefly in surprise, amid pages of discarded drawings and myriad swaths of material samples, scattered carelessly about the large office in colorful disarray.

“You asked me to remind you of that fete tonight.”

Illya was frowning at the drawing on his board. “How much time do I have?”

“Well, if you hurry, you can shower and shave. If not...” She turned her back so he wouldn’t see her grin.

“If you’re smiling, I promise, I will make the next week unpleasant for you.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Her tone held no hint of a smile.

He knew when to give up. “Never mind that. Is my tux pressed?”

“Of course. I had the fitter do up your new one, _and_ your favorite tie as well.”

Illya brightened at that; he was pleased with the design. Flat black, it retained all the best features of a fine tuxedo without the fussiness. The shirt was a pale ivory, just a few shades warmer than the usual white, and had flat, black buttons in a double-breasted pattern. The styling was simple, yet elegant—just the thing for a top designer to wear.

“As you know, I have no favorite tie.” His face was stern. “What about you? If you’re to be my date tonight, you must show Vanya’s in the best possible light.”

Rebecca laughed. “Don’t worry, _I’ll_ be ready. I will naturally expect you to introduce me as the ever-perfect assistant.”

Illya merely raised an eyebrow. “Naturally. As long as we understand each other.”

 

The fete was as bad as expected. Kuryakin hated the huge throngs of people, milling about, making inconsequential small talk. As least Rebecca shimmered outstandingly, looking especially lovely; the original gold and chestnut cocktail dress made the most of her golden brown hair and hazel eyes, and her dazzling smile smoothed any ruffled egos.

Endless appetizers and glasses of wine later, Illya had reached—or passed—his social limit. Finally, leaning up against his assistant, he whispered, “Shall we go?”

She smiled gratefully and murmured, “If I have to smile much longer, my face will cramp!”

Linking arms, they made their goodbyes, and headed toward the patio doors. Suddenly he felt an almost forgotten chill along the back of his neck and paused.

_Something is off, but what?_ Looking around he saw nothing out of place so, with a mental shrug, looked outside carefully. It was just beginning to snow.

_Strange… The last time I felt that way, it was because Napoleon—_

Careful of the new-fallen snow, he grasped Rebecca’s arm firmly as they left.

 

**_28 December 1978, New York_ **

Napoleon sighed. He really wasn’t in the mood to attend another one of these innumerable cocktail parties, but he promised the software people he’d be there. He chuffed a small laugh. There was a time when he really enjoyed these swank little soirees. _Especially when I could tease Illya about the capitalistic excesses._ But those days were long gone. 

Since Joyce’s move to the West Coast, he’d immersed himself into his business completely, focusing on spreadsheets, data bases, checks and balances… He purposely limited his personal life to a formal, weekly date, with a worldly woman of sophistication, only going out of town when unable to ignore the bi-sexual urges of his healthy libido. In fact, he’d just returned from a pleasant day in an exclusive spa, which catered to a very select clientele. Cleveland wasn’t that far; he’d definitely have to pay a return visit soon.

But for now… Squaring his shoulders, he touched his bowtie making sure it was perfectly straight. The reflection in the sidelight windows assured him his hair was perfect, his clothes immaculate. He glanced around as he rang the doorbell, smiling at his timing. The promised snow had just started coming down.

The butler ushered in the suave businessman, and Napoleon inclined his head briefly as he presented his card. He could hear the soft classical music and the murmur of guests just past the formal entryway. _Good._ The party may have officially started two hours ago but, from the sounds of things, was still going strong. As he entered the massive room, he spied one of his cronies and gave his megawatt smile in greeting. Pausing to help himself to a glass of champagne from one the trays, he headed over to join the small group. As he walked past the patio doors, though, a sudden, almost forgotten chill crept across his neck, raising the short hairs. Narrowing his eyes, he swiftly scanned the room. 

_Nothing…_ He shot his cuffs. _Strange… The last time I felt that way, it was because Illya—_

“Napoleon, glad you could make it.” The bluff man held out his hand in greeting. “Say, I’d like you to meet some friends of mine. Bill, this is the man I was telling you about…”

**Author's Note:**

> * Viktor Karmak was from The Deadly Quest Affair
> 
> Prompts:  
> 1\. A visit to the Ukraine/Georgia/some other SSR where Illya has lived.  
> 2\. snow  
> 3\. candles  
> Garonne left me all kinds of wonderful open-ended choices!


End file.
